


What The Landlady Found Outside Her Back Door

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Backstory, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Drunkenness, Gen, Motherly Mrs. Hudson, No-nonsense Mrs. Hudson, Origin Story, Overdose, Pre-Johnlock, Protective Sherlock, Shy Sherlock, Young Sherlock, physical violence, start of a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:28:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Mrs. Hudson was comfortable in her almost-solitary life, except for her brutal philandering husband. She could never have anticipated that, just outside her door, in a pile of overturned bins, she would find something that would make her life extraordinary...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat canon-compliant, but mostly just an imaginary scenario of how the affable landlady, Mrs. Martha Hudson, met a solitary, drug-addicted young man and helped him become the World's Only Consulting Detective.

It had been a quiet couple of days for Martha Hudson. Her drunken lout of a husband had wandered off God-only-knew-where with one of his many low-life girlfriends, doing God-only-knew-what. She had ceased asking about his comings and goings long ago, usually after having received a beating for asking. She regretted that she hadn’t dated him very long before they’d gotten married; in fact, he had swept her off her feet with his superficial charm and easy money. She’d been young, impressionable, and way too wild in those days. She’d caught his eye while working as an exotic dancer in one of the more upscale “gentlemen’s clubs” he frequented and he had decided that he had to have her. She shook her head and clucked her tongue at the memory as she sat down for her evening tea.

 

As she looked around her small kitchen, she realized how much she missed having a full–sized flat sometimes. The coffee shop out front helped to offset the mortgage, but it also ate up what used to be her living room and bedroom. She had taken to sleeping--and bathing--on the third floor so she could rent out the second floor flat to a tenant. 221A was totally unlivable due to the damp problem down there. People had complained about the musty smell and the mold that seemed to form on all surfaces. There was _another_ bedroom on the third floor, but it wasn’t a proper flat on its own, so she treated it as an adjunct to 221B, making it into a more-marketable two-bedroom flat.

 

After couple of sips of tea, she sighed gratefully. One less night of having her husband come home from the pub, rowdy at best, incoherently violent at worst. Martha’s mind had began to tread down a familiar path when she was startled by a mighty clattering of bins outside her side window. It _sounded_ like someone had fallen into them, repeatedly.

 

_Oh, Lord, don’t let it be him coming home_ , she silently prayed as she peered cautiously out the curtained window.

 

It had darkened significantly in the time it took her to make tea, so it was almost impossible to see anything from her vantage point. A lid from one of the bins had rolled away from the rest and she thought she saw a foot resting partially under it, wearing an off-white canvas shoe.

 

_A drunk or a drug user, probably._ _Well, time to show them off the premises. I run a **respectable** business here._ She strode resolutely to her back kitchen door, pausing only long enough to snag a long-handled broom on her way out. She’d had to deal with rough types before; it came with the territory.

 

Silently, cautiously, she tiptoed around the corner and into the short alley between her kitchen and her neighbor’s. That’s where she kept her bins, out of the way of the occasional car or truck trying to shoehorn its way down the back drive. Broom held high, she advanced purposefully on the recumbent figure sprawled gracelessly amidst her upended bins.

 

“Who are you?” she demanded, surprised that her voice wasn’t shaking. “What are you doing out here? This is private property! Leave immediately or I’ll be forced to call the bobbies!”

 

No response. She leaned in to get a better look at the intruder by the meager light streaming out through her kitchen window. It seemed to be a tall figure, lean to the point of emaciation, with a mop of dark hair, dressed in stained and torn second-hand clothes. She carefully prodded the body with the butt end of her broom. It stirred, then bounded to its feet amidst the clatter of metal  bins and lids, shaking its head as if to clear it. Martha let out a little shriek and reversed the broom, beating the figure over the head with it repeatedly.

 

“Get out, get out, get out!” she screamed, punctuating each command with a blow from her broom bristles. The young man (she could see now) fended off the strikes with whip thin, but strong, arms, crying out, “Please! Please, I’m not going to hurt you! I just fell, that’s all! Please, stop!”

 

Martha held her blows as she peered more closely at this scarecrow of a man. In the light, she could dimly see that he was probably in his mid-to-late 20’s, looking young enough that he could have been a student at uni with her own boys. This was no coarse tosser of a lad who would break into homes and knock little old ladies down in the street for their purses. No, this lad was well-spoken and educated. But what was he doing out here, on a chilly night, with no jacket, thread-bare clothes, and no hat or gloves?

 

“Madam, please, if I may be on my way, I shall trouble you no further,” he added, sincerely, in one of the loveliest voices she had ever heard.

 

_I was right. He_ **_is_** _uni, and probably well-brought-up, as well_. She lowered her broom, standing it on its butt end while she regarded him, hand on hip. She knew she stood between him and freedom, yet he never once made a threatening move or gesture. He stood there, head down, rubbing his arms in the cool breeze that had penetrated this dark space. Martha thought long and hard before making what her husband would have described as “a plonker’s decision”.

 

“Come on, you,” she said, jerking her head toward the kitchen door. “It’s warm inside and I’ve some food in the fridge, if you’d like.”

 

The young man’s head jerked up in surprise. In the light she could see a thin face with high, sharp cheekbones, a patrician nose, and unusually full lips. The eyes remained in shadow. He dipped his head and said, “That would be greatly appreciated, Madam”.

 

Martha turned and led the way to her door, holding it open in welcome for the young man. He slid inside with the grace of a dancer…or a cat burglar. She entered behind him, closed the door, and locked it, before returning the broom to its resting place. When she turned, she saw the young man standing in the middle of her kitchen, rubbing his hands together and looking around the room, seeming to be taking in every detail.

 

“Sit down, lad,” Martha urged. The young man stepped over to her kitchen table and pulled out a chair, sitting down gingerly, as if unsure that his limbs would cooperate. She was certain he had to have banged himself up proper in his fall. “Tea?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

“Biscuits?”

 

“If you would be so kind…”

 

She turned to her stove to reheat the water already in the kettle, then reached for a cup and fresh tea for brewing. She looked over her shoulder and was surprised to find the young man gazing at her quite intently. His eyes, which she could finally see clearly, were not large but they were, in their own way, fascinating, drawing one’s attention immediately—light-colored, cat-like, piercing, inquisitive. She smiled awkwardly before turning her attention back to the whistling kettle and preparing a fresh cup of tea for her guest. After procuring a plate full of biscuits, she carried them to the table, steaming cup in hand, to place both in front of the young man. Taking the kettle in hand, she added some hot water to her own, now-ice-cold, tea.

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You are very kind.” His voice was a deep, mellifluous baritone, his accent cultured..

 

“It’s no trouble, dear, I…”

 

A sudden realization struck her. She turned and asked, “What did you call me?”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, first name Martha. That IS your name, isn’t it?” he smiled in an odd fashion.

 

“Well, yes, but how…”

 

“You also have a husband who is a drunk, a cheat, and an abuser, and at least two sons who play sports. You own your home but rent to the store out front and a flat upstairs…” he ticked off each observation with practiced ease before taking a deep draught of his tea and shoving a biscuit in his mouth, dribbling crumbs.

 

Martha, holding her re-warmed tea with both hands—they seemed to be shaking for some reason—wandered over to the table and sat down opposite her guest. Those searching eyes followed her, seeming to dissect her and tease out her innermost secrets. She felt…exposed, yet not threatened. It almost seemed to be a kind of _game_ to this lad.

 

“That was…how did you know all that?” she wondered aloud. “The rentals, my husband, my boys…”

 

The lad shrugged. “It’s easy, if one learns how to observe what is around oneself and draw the appropriate conclusions. First, the rentals. I am familiar with this neighborhood and have seen the shop out front.  In the open drawer on your sideboard, you have stored your mortgage papers and some other documents relating to the renting of space to the coffeeshop. There is a “For Rent” sign outside your door. Knowing the layout of these buildings, I know that the store takes up much of your first floor space, so you must have rooms on one of the other floors. The third floor seldom has a kitchen but does have a bedroom with a bath; therefore, it would be most expedient for you to use this kitchen and live on the incomplete third floor, saving the second floor, which IS a self-contained flat, as a rental.

 

“Second, the husband. The abuse is obvious from the fading bruises around your neck, barely concealed by your scarf, in the form of two rather large hands, along with a few pieces of broken furniture hastily mended. Once, I saw a man come out of this residence, to be joined by some young woman of, shall we say, _questionable_ repute, who has handed him something in a paper bag that looked very much like a liquor bottle. The same man is known in the surrounding pubs as a brawler and a bully; indeed, I have run afoul of him myself upon occasion, though I doubt he would remember me. I have also seen him talking to several well-connected drug figures in the area and surreptitiously handing them packets of drugs and/or cash.”

 

Third, your two sons. They have left two very different-sized athletic shoes kicked in the corner, not something your husband would wear. Plus, while they may fulfill your request to wipe their feet off when they come in, it’s obvious that they frequently miss the mat and have left multiple scuff marks on your floor, as well as footsteps outside your door, caked in dirt.” He finished by popping another biscuit into his mouth and downing the rest of his tea.

 

Martha sat back, astounded. This young man had rattled all these observation off so casually, as though it was an everyday event. She watched as he wolfed down some more biscuits and licked the crumbs from his fingers. He caught her eye and stopped, self-consciously, like a child caught doing something naughty. “I…forgive my manners. My Mum would be appalled.”

 

“You eat like you haven’t had a meal in days,” she observed.

 

He nodded. “Unfortunately, all too true. I…forget to eat sometimes.” He smiled awkwardly, but his eyes never lost their keenness.

 

“Would you like something? I have some leftover cottage pie,” Martha offered. Before the lad could protest, she waved her hand and said, “It’s no trouble, really. You look like you could use something substantial, not just biscuits.”

 

His face brightened. “Yes, please, Mrs. Hudson.” A pause, then he asked, “Was I right?”

 

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Right?  Oh, yes! Yes, you were, on all counts. Incredible! My sons are at uni right now, so they’re not here. That was…I’ve never seen the like.” She shook her head in disbelief, completely missing the satisfied smile on her guest’s face. As she pulled the leftovers from her fridge, it suddenly hit her. She turned to the young man and said, “You know, I don’t even know your name.”

 

“Oh, it’s Sherlock, Madam. Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. Chapter 2

To say that Sherlock wolfed down his meal was an understatement. Martha watched him in amusement as forkful after forkful disappeared into that whip-thin body without a pause for breath. At one point, he shivered, and she had popped up to cover his shoulders with a light blanket, for which he murmured his appreciation before diving back into his meal. Another cup of hot tea and a tart for desert and young Sherlock seemed to have a new lease on life. His eyes sparkled and he had a bit more color in his face, as fair as he was. Martha looked him over once again and declared, “Young man, you need a bath and a change of clothes.”

 

Sherlock looked chastened. “I know. I must look a fright but I got kicked out of my last flat when I refused to join my flatmates in robbing a house for money to buy drugs.” He shrugged, then rubbed the inside of his left elbow. Martha saw several fresh needle marks, all clean and free of infection. “I turned them in, instead, so I can’t go back there.”

 

“You do drugs,” she stated, without accusation. “And you’re living on the street.”

 

Sherlock bowed his head, his eyes in shadow. “Yes,” he replied softly. “An unfortunate coping mechanism I picked up in uni.” He looked up from under his brows. “I wasn’t exactly popular with my classmates.”

 

Martha’s tone softened. “Do your parents know?”

 

A shake of the head, causing greasy dark curls to bounce. “No. Only my older brother knows and we’re…well, we’re not the best of terms. I receive an allowance from my parents but they don’t know what I use it for. They think I work with Mycroft and have a nice apartment.”

 

“Mycroft,” Mrs Hudson mused. “What an unusual name, much like yours. Your brother?”

 

Sherlock bobbed his head in assent. “Yes. He’s rather a bit rubbish but…”

 

Martha giggled. She was rather coming to like this young man.

 

A door slammed out front, loudly enough to be heard in the back kitchen, followed by heavy footsteps and a whisky-laden voice.

 

“Woman! Get yourself out here and help me with this!” came the harsh bellow.

 

Martha’s eyes widened in fear as she fluttered around the room.. “Oh, Lord! You stay here. No, he’ll probably be coming in here with whatever-it-is. He mustn’t see you! Quick—hide in the pantry!” she gasped as she hauled him to his feet and shoved him bodily into the well-stocked pantry and closed the door. Sherlock cracked it open to watch.

 

“Woman! Where are you? Get your fat arse…”

 

“I’m here!” Martha twittered as she opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Her husband sat on the upholstered armchair beside the stair, his bloated form leaning sloppily to one side, two large bags of what looked like bottles at his feet. He gently kicked at one of them and boasted, “Liquor store going out of business two blocks over. Bought everything I could carry.” He heaved himself to his feet unsteadily, already reeking of cheap booze and even cheaper perfume. “Take one of these and I’ll take the other.”

 

Martha winced at the thought of more booze in the house and the inevitable results for her. “Dear, don’t you think we have enough…”

 

“Shut up!” he boomed, taking a wobbly step toward her. “Your job is to obey, you hear me? That’s what you promised—‘to love, honor, and _obey_ ’, yeah?” Martha shrank back and nodded mutely. “Then fucking OBEY, woman!”

 

She stood, immobilized by fear, hearing only the sound of her own racing heart, as her husband advanced on her, hand raised to deliver a back-slap, as he had done so many times before. She squeezed her eyes shut and awaited the blow with the fatalistic patience of the long-abused.

 

Later on, she really couldn’t tell the bobbies what had happened. One second, she was standing in her hallway awaiting a blow that never landed; the next, her husband of over twenty years was lying on the rug in the hallway, moaning and clutching at several new bruise-covered injuries inflicted within seconds and almost soundlessly. She opened her eyes only when a pair of gentle hands held her by the shoulders and shook her lightly.

 

“Mrs. Hudson,” a deep, now-familiar voice said. “I think we’d better call Scotland Yard. I’m afraid your husband has had an accident. Tripped over some bottles. Several times.” She looked up at Sherlock wonderingly and he smiled—a wide, genuine smile, full of caring and concern. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about him anymore, not after I give my report to the police.”

 

Martha sighed and sagged against Sherlock in relief. He held her tenderly, smoothing her hair, before leading her back into her kitchen, leaving her husband in a pitiful, moaning wreck on the floor of the foyer.

 

>>>***<<<

 

As the ambulance drove away, with the police directly behind them, Martha marveled at the evening’s events. First, she met this young man, this Sherlock Holmes, lying in her bins; then, he told her about her life without any information other than that gathered with his own eyes; finally, he saved her from an inevitable beating at the hands of her sot of a husband. The story he wove to explain her husband’s injuries was clever and well-crafted, even if the police cast a disbelieving eye at him for it. They had bundled the man into an ambulance after placing him under arrest for drunk and disorderly, as well as domestic violence.

 

Sherlock closed the front and inner doors before returning to the kitchen. He sat down at the table before looking quizzically up at her.

 

“Would you like me to leave now?” he asked, politely. “I shouldn’t want to wear out a welcome.”

 

The question took her off-guard. “Leave?” she asked. “Why on Earth would I want you to leave?”

 

The silver eyes lowered. “I think I’ve caused you enough inconvenience for one night, don’t you think?”

 

Martha snorted delicately in disbelief. “Nonsense! You’re staying right here until you’ve had a bath, a good night’s sleep in a proper bed, and some new clothes. My sons left some of their things here; I’m sure you can find something that will fit. And you need at least another good meal, I think.”

 

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide in wonder. His full lips dropped open.

 

_My Lord, this boy knows nothing of kindness! What sort of life has he had? Who could have mistreated him so badly, at such an age?_

 

“Now,” she started, pulling Sherlock up to his feet and pushing him toward the door to the foyer. “I want you to go up to the second floor flat. It’s furnished but not luxurious and it _does_ have a bath. I’ll bring you a robe and some towels, and a set of sheets too, I think. But, before that, go up to the third floor bedroom, the one on the left, and pick out some clean clothes. And shoes. I’ll also get you some soap and shampoo. All right? Now, _get_!” she said as she gave him a little push up the stairs. The police had taken the bags of booze back to the liquor store to ask for a refund for her, as a courtesy, so they weren’t tripping over _those_ , at least.

 

As he mounted the stairs, Sherlock stopped to look down at Martha. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. For everything,” he said, softly but with great feeling.

 

She smiled up at him, feeling a maternal fondness for this young man. “Not at all, Sherlock. No trouble at all.”

 

>>>***<<<

 

“Well, you certainly _look_ a bit more put-together than you did last night,” Martha observed blithely as Sherlock entered her kitchen from the foyer. She stopped to examine the young man she had found loitering in her bins, nodding in approval. “You clean up very well, Sherlock. Now sit down. I’ve prepared you some breakfast.”

 

His mouth dropped open, as if to protest, but she cast a stern look his way and his jaw snapped shut with an audible click. He dropped his head submissively and sat down in the same chair he had occupied the night before.

 

While she fussed over his eggs and sausage, Martha glanced over her shoulder at her new charge. He _did_ look so much better. Gone was the surface layer of grime, the greasy hair, and the ratty-looking clothes. In their place was a fair-skinned young man with dark brown, curly hair that cried out for a pair of scissors. He was dressed in her sons’ clothes—a clean t-shirt with a faded logo, slim-legged jeans, and a pair of old-but-not too-badly-worn sand shoes. He was thin, to be sure, but actually much more muscular than one would think to look at him, probably due to his height. His restless eyes were everywhere, collecting information, and she could almost hear his brain whir and click while it catalogued every new sensation and piece of data.

 

“So, how are you feeling this morning?” she asked cheerfully, smiling to herself as he gave a little start at the sound of her voice. “I mean, are you having any…problems?”

 

His silvery eyes shifted upward to meet hers and he shook his head, clean curls bouncing about his face. “I’m…fine, thank you. The last dose I took was not too long ago and I try never to overdo it, just enough to take the edge off, but I _will_ need to find my dealer…” He stopped, suddenly remembering to whom he was speaking. His cheeks colored a bit in discomfort and…shame. He stared down at the table, fearing he’d offended his benefactress.

 

Therefore, he was surprised when a large, cheap-china plate was plunked down before him, filled almost to overflowing with scrambled eggs, buttered toast, sausage links, and some hash browns, all accompanied by a glass of tomato juice and a cup of tea with sugar. Martha could see his eyes sparkle with anticipation as he beheld the feast. The odd smile of last night was gone, replaced by a wide grin that crinkled the sides of his face from eyes to jaw-line.

 

“Eat! Eat, lad, before it gets cold!” Martha admonished him. Sherlock needed no further encouragement. He picked up his implements and dove into the meal with gusto. Martha wasn’t even sure he took breaths between each forkful of egg or bite of toast. It was so painfully obvious that this young man needed someone to help him along. Otherwise…she really didn’t want to consider the alternative.

 

She sat down opposite him with her own cup of tea, turning over thoughts as she watched him eat. _How can I send him back out into the street after what he did for me last night? How long could he survive out there without a place to stay where he’ll be safe? It will be getting colder now at night. He might freeze, he might overdose, he might be killed or seriously injured by other addicts or criminals…_

 

With a muffled burp and a whispered “Excuse me”, Sherlock pushed his plate away, only to pick up his tea and down it in one long gulp. Martha smiled warmly at him and he blushed self-consciously.

 

“That was delicious, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you. I haven’t had meals like this in…well, quite a while. The drugs, well, they usually dampen my appetite, so when I finally do eat, it’s…um…”

 

Martha nodded. “I understand, dear. My husband is that way with the drink.” She reached across and patted his hand. He froze—not out of fear, but because the gesture seemed to be… unexpected. She leaned in toward him a bit. “Tell me, Sherlock, why do you use drugs? It’s obvious that you’re an intelligent, well-educated lad who went to uni. What on Earth could have possessed you to start using…?”

 

“Cocaine, Mrs. Hudson, or, occasionally, morphine,” he finished her sentence. “I only ever use a clean needle and never share one with anyone. You’re right; I know the risks and the dangers, and yet, here I am, living on the street, falling into people’s bins, because…” He stopped, a pained expression crossing his face.

 

“Why, dear?” she coaxed. “If it isn’t too personal.”

 

He smiled sadly, still allowing her hand to remain resting atop his. He seemed to be relaxing a bit, letting his guard down just a little bit. At one point, he even turned his palm upward and curled his fingers into hers, seeming to gain some comfort from that.

 

“Most people would think that being intelligent is a gift, something one could use to get ahead in the world. _But_ …one can have too much of a good thing. So it is with me. I tested out at a very high level in standardized tests and used that to get me into uni. I graduated with a degree in chemistry and a few minors, but…,” He sighed wistfully. “I never made any friends. They thought I was some sort of head case or  freak because I could make deductions about them that were so accurate that they became angry at me for telling their so-called “secrets”, most of which were absolute rubbish. I destroyed more than one dating relationship for them by telling the girls what their boyfriend was really like. Neither one of them would have any use for me after that.” He gulped. “I was only trying to help…”

 

His eyes sought hers and they were no longer piercing, but, rather, pleading—for understanding, perhaps, or acceptance. She could hear the pain in his voice as he told her his story. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

 

“Was it always like this for you, dear?” she asked softly, encouraging him to continue.

 

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes. All my life. The only person I could really communicate with was my brother Mycroft, who is much more intelligent than even I am and who always enjoyed rubbing it in. We didn’t even meet other children until I got older—Mum insisted on home-schooling us for the longest time because she didn’t think that the local schools had much to offer us. We had both tested off the scale in IQ tests. So, when I finally _did_ meet other children, it was a shock to see how… _unintelligent_ they were. That was the day I realized I wasn’t as stupid as Mycroft had been saying I was. Unfortunately, being home-schooled by a brilliant mother did not prepare me for social interactions with “normal” children. I was treated like a pariah from day one because I just couldn’t _talk to them_.” He slammed his free, open hand onto the tabletop, making Mrs. Hudson jump.

 

He opened his eyes and they were _intense_. “For the longest time I wished I could have been like them--just normal, happy children. It wasn’t _my_ fault I was born this way. I cried when I came home from school _every single day_ because of their cruelty. I finally decided that, if I couldn’t be _like_ them, I would be _better than_ them. So I read and I researched and I learned as much as I could until I could ace any test, set the curve for the class… _and they hated me even more_. I didn’t even think that was possible.” He was almost shaking now with emotion.

 

Martha gently laid her other hand over his in support and said, “You poor dear. Couldn’t you have turned to your brother for support? For company?”

 

Sherlock snorted in derision. “Mycroft? The boy genius? _Please_.” He turned his head aside, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Mycroft is eight years older than I am. He left for uni when I needed him the most. God forbid he should wait a couple of years or go to a local uni.” He sighed again, this time in resignation. “Although, I suppose, had I been in his position I would have done the same. There were…issues at home, things we never really discussed; we just acted like they didn’t exist. Not a lot of communication in my home. Mycroft wanted out, badly. Problem was, he left _me_ behind. Then, after I graduated uni, he offered me a job working for his agency and I accepted. Some things…happened…that caused a rift between us. I walked out and turned my back on him and his dealings. I’m not my brother. I… couldn’t countenance some of the things he did or asked me to do. So I left, and I tried to forget. I had tried drugs in uni—I mean, who hasn’t?—so that’s what I turned to, to soften the memories and mitigate the pain I was feeling.” He shrugged. “So here I am, a drug user, a failed chemist, living on the streets until God-only-knows-what happens. No one I can turn to anymore.” His eyes drifted off, staring at some distant point, his face expressionless. He stayed that way for a few seconds before a shiver passed through him.

 

Martha gnawed on her lower lip before making her final decision. She smiled and patted his hand in a motherly manner. “Well, not anymore, young man. You can stay here until I rent the second floor apartment, at which time we’ll have to make other arrangements for you. You can share meals with me and use my sons’ clothes while they’re away.” She held up a finger as he started to protest, “ _in exchange_ for some work around the building. Is that fair?”

 

She eyed him appraisingly. He had that same deer-in-the-headlights look he got whenever someone showed him a kindness. It might have been the light, but she thought she saw a glimmer of tears in those expressive eyes. He snuffled.

 

“Yes…yes, Mrs. Hudson,” he stammered, his voice choked with emotion. “That would be… _more_ than fair. Thank you.” He laid his free hand over hers and squeezed, a trickle of tears escaping, despite his best efforts. He released her hands and started to get up.

 

“Now, no drug use, users or dealers allowed, you hear?” she added, sternly. “I run a respectable business and I want no trouble with the law.”

 

He smiled, his face crinkling up like an autumn pumpkin. “Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I would never abuse your hospitality in such a manner.” He bowed slightly, elegantly, to her before bounding out of the kitchen and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Martha chuckled to herself. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she had the feeling she had just done something good, something with long-term ramifications.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sinister figure accosts the landlady and makes her an offer...

Sherlock proved to be a reliable and dutiful worker. Clever, too. One day, when she came home from shopping, she found him tinkering with some chemicals in her kitchen, trying to find something that would remove a certain type of build-up on her gutters and pipes. He succeeded, too. Her house had never looked better or smelled cleaner. He repaired things that broke, painted things that were showing wear, and basically kept to himself unless it was mealtime. He would then bound down the stairs, eyes bright and face flushed, to tell her about all the things he had accomplished and any new experiments he had started. His enthusiasm always made her smile and she marveled at the amount of food he could put away after a busy day. It was like having a son at home again.

 

Walking back from the shops one afternoon—empty-handed, except for her purse—a long black car slid to the curb beside her. A woman of advancing years unfolded herself from the back seat and stepped in front of her, accompanied by a burly, uniformed guard in dark glasses with an earpiece stuck in his left ear.

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” the woman inquired imperiously. When Martha didn’t answer immediately, she repeated, “Are you Martha Hudson?”

 

Martha started to back away but ended up bumping into _another_ guard who had silently walked up behind her. She looked around, panic starting to rise up in her throat, until the older woman held out an id wallet. Martha didn’t recognize the exact agency but _did_ recognize the insignia of the British government.

 

The older woman held out her hand reassuringly. “There’s no need to worry, Mrs. Hudson. My employer is a government official who wishes to speak with you _privately_. Would you accompany us, please? We will return you to your home as soon as he is done talking with you.” She allowed just a hint of a polite smile to break her otherwise cool façade. Martha decided that, discretion being the better part of valor, maybe she should accompany them.

 

So off they went.

 

The trip didn’t take long, but it _did_ manage to take her into the warehouse district. The car rumbled up to an apparently-unoccupied building, where a huge loading dock door slid open far more easily than it should have, judging from its battered appearance.

 

_Odd place for a meeting with a British official. I would have expected some sort of posh office or something_ , _not an old tatty garage_.

 

The limo stopped and one of the guards exited, coming around to open her door and help her disembark. He wordlessly gestured to a lone figure standing about twenty feet in front of the car and stood aside so she could pass him. She walked nervously toward the man, fidgeting with her purse strap.

 

As she neared, she could see he was tall, with a thinning hairline, impeccably dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit with matching tie and pocket square. He was leaning on an umbrella with one foot crossed in front of the other in what she _assumed_ was supposed to be a devil-may-care attitude. His expression was cool, composed, and a touch arrogant. She stopped several feet away from him and steeled herself for the encounter.

 

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Such a pleasure to meet you,” he quipped, staring down his long nose at her. He made no offer of his hand in introduction. Neither did she. “I hope your trip was pleasant and you are not too… inconvenienced.”

 

Martha squared her shoulders. She had had quite enough of this charade. “Yes, actually, it _is_ quite inconvenient, thank-you-very-much. I have quite a few things to do today, one of which is _not_ being kidnapped and brought to a warehouse to meet a member of the British government under what I can only call bizarre circumstances,” she snapped. “I demand that you return me home at once. I have…”

 

“You have a young man staying at your home—tall, thin, dark hair—do you not?” he asked, arching one eyebrow in query.

 

Martha sniffed, pulling up to her full height. “And if I do, what business is it of yours?”

 

“Hmhm. None of my business _officially,_ but rather of a more… _personal_ nature,” he stated, uncrossing his legs and approaching her, tapping his umbrella’s ferrule on the cement with every other step. Martha stood her ground until he was no more than two feet away from her—far closer than she was comfortable with.

 

“So, what do want with me…or him?” she asked tautly. She could feel her patience wearing thin with this haughty little bureaucrat. She had faced far more dangerous sorts than him in her days being married to a druglord.

 

“Oh, nothing you would be too uncomfortable with, I assure you. I would simply like for you to send me reports on his progress. If he’s taking drugs, disappearing for long periods of time, suffering mood changes...that sort of thing. Nothing too intrusive. And, in exchange, I would be willing to pay you the sum of five-hundred pounds a month.” He tilted his head and smiled dryly, like a snake. “Do we have a deal?”

 

Martha’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “So, you would be willing to pay me for information on this young man. Why? You said ‘personal’. What is this young man to you?” She tightened her grip on her purse strap.

 

The gentleman was _clearly_ uncomfortable with having his motives questioned. He cleared his throat and said, “Let’s just say that I worry about him _constantly_. I want to be sure that he is safe and surrounded by people who will not take advantage of him. He disappeared off our radar a few weeks back and we were only able to find out where he was staying a day or two after you took him in, thanks to your husband’s arrest.” He rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed loudly. “This is becoming tedious. Do we have a deal or not, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked, taking a step closer, staring down at her like a predatory bird.

 

That was it. The last straw, as far as Martha was concerned. She raised her arm and started whaling on the man with her purse, using all the strength she could muster. “No! No, I will not help you, you arrogant sod! That young man is under my roof, under my care, and you couldn’t pay me enough to tell you anything!” she shrilled, punctuating her words with blow after blow against him, which he tried haplessly to ward off with his umbrella and flailing arms. She kept attacking until one of the guards came to the man’s rescue, gently pulling Martha away until she was unable to make contact anymore.

 

Suddenly, her eyes widened in realization. “You!” she cried, pointing in an accusatory manner. “You…you’re the lad’s brother, the one who works for the government--Micro…”

 

“Mycroft!” he snapped back, before covering his mouth in alarm, too late to stifle his outburst.

 

“You hurt him, you know. He didn’t tell me exactly what happened, but he doesn’t trust you now. So, why should I?” Her tone was tart.

 

Mycroft seemed to wilt under the weight of her words. “I know. There were…problems that have caused an estrangement between us, but I _do_ _care_ about him--very much so.”

 

It was Martha’s turn to act imperious. “Perhaps that is true, but, be that as it may, I will give you no information about him. I respect his privacy. He’s a good lad and I will look after him.” She stepped toward him in a resolute manner. “It might be best if you kept your distance.”

 

A sadness seemed to steal over Mycroft’s cold expression. His eyes lowered. “You may go, Mrs. Hudson.” He paused, fidgeting uncomfortably, before adding, “Do look after Sherlock for me, won’t you?”

 

Her mien softened ever so slightly. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. It would be my pleasure.” She turned and walked back to the car, head held high. As she clambered back inside, her female companion could barely keep a straight face. Still looking straight ahead as they pulled out, she side-mouthed, “Good job, Mrs. H.”

 

Martha giggled to herself as the car re-emerged into the afternoon light.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Mycroft was as good as his word. No further visits from the British Government agents, no black cars pacing her down the streets, and no surveillance requests, either. Life had returned to some semblance of order, enhanced by the prolonged absence of her husband. Seems someone had managed to get his stay in jail extended significantly…

 

Sherlock stayed alone in 221B most of the time, helping out and, occasionally, nipping out on errands. He sometimes entertained some homeless people for short periods; she never asked why and he never said. They were always polite and considerate while at the flat and caused no damage. The comings and goings were noteworthy by the apparent concentration to task on the face of each one as they left.

 

One day, though, her curiosity got the better of her. After a particularly large group of homeless folk left the flat, Martha mounted the stairs to find Sherlock shuffling newspapers and making copious notes in a sprawling hand. The furnished apartment smelled of smoke but was otherwise not in too bad shape—mostly just cluttered with odds and ends and an awful lot of books. He looked up at Martha as she entered the room and smiled brightly.

 

“I figured you would be coming up eventually to see what’s going on,” he grinned, impishly.

 

She hitched with her thumb over her shoulder. “And who, might I ask, are they?” she inquired, “and why are they here?”

 

Sherlock put down his cuttings and swiveled around on his bum to face her. “They are my agents. I call them the Network. They work for me in exchange for…certain favors.”

 

Her expression darkened. “Drugs?”

 

He looked startled. “What? No! Not like that, Mrs. Hudson! I help them with certain matters in exchange for them assisting _me_ with problems that may come my way, sort of like this one…” He scootched closer, holding up a clipping about a young girl who disappeared one day after school.

 

Martha peered closely, recognizing the story from the Guardian. “Yes, I remember that one. They found her a few days later, unharmed, thank goodness. A couple of men had been turned over to the police after having been beaten. They confessed…” Her eyes widened in realization. “You? Was that you and your…group?”

 

He grinned even wider. “Yes! I look through the papers to find things that might interest me, then I help resolve them, with the help of the network. In exchange, I give them advice, maybe a bit of food or money, if I have it myself to give, or I help get them out of trouble. Most are just down-on-their-luck folk who want to help out. I only choose the best.”

 

The landlady was astonished. She had never, in a million years, thought that this clever young man could be so multi-talented, so caring about others. It warmed her heart that she had taken him in like she did, and, here he was, helping others.

 

“You’re a good lad, Sherlock, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Some people are coming by to look at the flat tomorrow, and…”

 

His face dropped. “That’s okay, Mrs. H. I knew it was only temporary anyway, but thank you so much for your kindness.” He turned away and began picking up his papers and few meager belongings.

 

Martha’s heart went out to him. “Well, maybe they won’t take it…”

 

His head swung around with an audible snap. “Oh, no, Mrs. H., you must do what’s best for you. I’ll find a place to stay…I always do” and he redoubled his efforts to assemble his things.

 

Martha shook her head sadly. Such a nice boy…

 

She left the flat without another word. Sherlock stopped for a moment to watch her go with an undecipherable look on his face before turning back to his work.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New threats surround Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock is attacked and her whole world falls under threat from within.

Late that night, she heard a scuffle upstairs, uncharacteristic of the normally quiet, introspective youth residing there. There was the sound of impacts against furniture, an occasional scuffle, and a couple of “oofs!” that sound serious. In all, however, it took place in unnerving quiet.

 

Martha stuck her head out her doorway, frying pan in hand, in time to see three or four ruffians running down the stairs, two of whom she recognized as being in her husband’s employ. One turned to look back at her, glaring menacingly, until she opened the door wider and showed him the frying pan and the carving knife she was holding in either hand.

 

“Don’t even think about it, Brown,” she growled.

 

He pointed a finger at her and said, “You keep your mouth shut, Missus,” before he turned and scurried after the rest.

 

Worried, Martha put in a call to Scotland Yard before attempting to go upstairs. God only knew if there were more of them…

 

_Oh, my God! Sherlock!_

 

She gasped as she remembered the mannerly young man at the top of the winding stairs. In a panic, she ran up to the second floor, frying pan still clutched in one hand, and practically flew through the doorway. There, she found the Sherlock, beaten and bloody, with a fresh needle stuck in his neck. She screamed before she dropped the pan and fell to her knees beside him, pulling the needle out of his neck and holding his limp body against hers.

 

_Still breathing, thank Heaven, but whatever was in that syringe…_

 

He moved weakly, mumbling something. She tried her best to comfort him.

 

“Shh, shh, Sherlock, the ambulance will be here shortly. Did they give you the drugs, dear?”

 

A single, jerky nod was all he could manage before going completely still.

 

Downstairs, she could hear the police arrive, sirens blaring. Someone called from outside and, receiving no reply, burst through the outer door. She didn’t care; she could easily replace the lock. Sherlock, on the other hand…

 

“Up here!” she sang out, and was gratified to hear the hurried tread of feet coming up the steps.

 

“What happened? What’s the matter?” a tall, well-built detective in a trenchcoat asked, as he burst into the room.

 

“Who are you?” Martha warbled. “Are you the police?”

 

The detective nodded his graying head. “Yeah, sorry, I’m Detective Gregory Lestrade. What’s wrong with him?” he asked, pointing to the flaccid body in the landlady’s arms.

 

“Oh, my God. There were some men in here, there was a fight. I found _Sherlock_ ,” she hugged him closer, “on the floor, almost unconscious. There was a needle in his neck…”

 

“ _Shit_. Oh, sorry, ma’am,” Lestrade said as he grabbed his walkie. “Donovan, get an ambulance here asap. Beating victim with drug overdose, victim is unconscious, do it NOW!”

 

“Yessir,” a tinny female voice piped back.

 

Lestrade knelt next to the distraught woman and pushed the hair away from the victim’s face. “Young one. Think I might’ve seen him around. Drug addict, but he’s never given me or mine any trouble.” He looked up, expectantly. “You sure he didn’t do this to himself?”

 

Martha was outraged. “Are you implying this young man beat himself senseless, then stuck a needle in his neck for all to see? Hardly! I saw the men leaving; I even recognized a couple of them—associates of my husband, unfortunately.” She sniffed in distain.

 

The detective nodded. “Yeah, I can imagine.” There was a clatter on the stairs. “Up here, Donovan.”

 

Sally Donovan mounted the stairs, followed by the ambulance corp carrying a stretcher. She looked down at the prostrate form in Martha’s arms.

 

“Huh. I recognize ‘im. Name’s Shezza, or some such. ‘Omeless druggie. What’s ‘e done now? Offed ‘imself?” she snickered.

 

Lestrade could see Martha was about to burst in fury, so he herded Donovan out and let the medics tend to Sherlock. They had to pry him out of Mrs. Hudson’s arms as she whimpered in protest. “There, there, missus, we’ll tend to your boy, don’t you worry.”

 

They were, finally, able to get Sherlock on the stretcher and down the stairs to the waiting ambulance. Lestrade dismissed Donovan as not being the right person to question Martha. He led her over to the couch, helped her sit down, sat down himself, and pulled out a notepad. “Now, Mrs. Hudson, please tell me everything that happened."

 

She did, indeed, explain everything, from her discovery of the young Sherlock flailing around in her bins right up to the present day. “I’m sure it was my husband who sent those men to do Sherlock a turn,” she asserted. “He defended me, and he paid for it, poor lad.” She snuffled.

 

Lestrade nodded. “All right, Mrs. Hudson. We’ll round up these characters and question them. No doubt one of them will spill the beans, then we can put your husband away for a very long time.”

 

Martha nodded. “That would be a godsend. If I could divorce him, I would, but he’s threatened me and the boys if I ever try to do it.”

 

“I understand,” Lestrade answered. “You’re a very brave woman for standing up to him, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

Martha sniffed again, this time in disdain. “Not really. He used to beat me and the boys when they were younger, but now that they’re off to uni, I only have to worry about myself. Maybe, this time, I’ll go through with it, as long as he’s in the Bailey.”

 

“Good idea, Mrs. H.” He rose, then offered his hand to the landlady. “I’ll keep you informed of our progress. In fact, I’m going to go check in on Sherlock now. If he’ll testify, we can put the whole bunch away.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure he will,” she nodded, emphatically. “That young man has no fear in him. I just hope he’ll be okay.”

 

Lestrade nodded his head and smiled as he left. Martha remained sitting there, looking around the overturned room morosely.

 

_How can I rent the flat when I’m so used to Sherlock being in it? My poor boy…_

 

>>>***<<<

 

A few days later, Lestrade showed up unexpectedly at Martha’s front door. She led him into her tiny flat in the back of the townhouse and offered him a cup of tea and biscuits. He gratefully accepted both. He also didn’t complain when she added a touch of whiskey to their cups. “Medicinal, of course. Fortifies the spirit.”

 

Lestrade smirked as he took a sip, then asked, “What do you know about this Sherlock?”

 

She sat down and took a sip of her own cup, looking pensive. “Well, I can tell you that he’s very smart and a good worker. He also loves to tinker around the kitchen, invent things, you know. Oh, and I almost forgot; he has this incredible knack for noticing things…”

 

Lestrade excitedly pointed at her. “Yeah, yeah, about that…what kind of things did he notice? What did he say?”

 

She sat back in her chair, staring straight ahead. “Well, he would say things about my life that he couldn’t possibly have known, just by looking around at things and making conclusions. He amazes me constantly!”

 

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Lestrade agreed. “Once he was stabilized and we started questioning him, he started coming up with some of the most amazing conclusions about the people around him that I’ve ever heard. Said some things about Sgt. Donovan that got her back up right proper. She said there was something freakish about him, the way he could cut to the heart of things without having been told anything at all. He even gave me a clue on a case I had mentioned to an officer in passing! You’re right, he is bloody amazing!”

 

Martha smiled knowingly.

 

“However,” the detective continued, “that boy has a _major_ attitude problem. Anyone he considers to be below his intellectual level, which is just about everyone, he lays into them, calling them names and being generally insulting. He had already alienated half the staff and all of the doctors who had come in to see him by the time I got there!”

 

“How odd,” Martha said, her eyebrows arching. “Why, he’s only ever treated me with the utmost kindness and respect.”

 

“Yeah. It’s the strangest thing,” he agreed. “Sharp mind, even sharper tongue. But,” he held up one finger in emphasis, “he was able to give us invaluable information about the perps, so we’re rounding them up as we speak. You’re right about him—he has no fear. Can’t have, considering the kind of people he’s lived amongst all these years.”

 

“Yes, about that,” Martha replied. “He sometimes has whole groups of…I guess you would call them homeless people, come in, directing them like a small army. Calls them his ‘network’, or some such. Says they help him solve crimes.”

 

“Hmmm, interesting,” Lestrade mused, stroking his chin pensively. “I may have to look into this further. I mean, we’ve got some strange cases at the Yard that he could look at. Maybe he could give us an idea or two…certainly couldn’t hurt.”

 

Lestrade’s pager went off. He held up his hand to pause the conversation as he answered the call. “Yes, Lestrade speaking, what…” His face drained of all color. “Right, get out on the street and find him, NOW! Call in as many men as you need.” He thumbed his mobile off and laid it on the table, drawing in a deep breath…

 

“What’s happened?” Martha asked, anxiety making her voice a little shaky. She knew bad news when she saw it. “Is Sherlock all right? Nothing’s happened to him, has it?”

 

Pursing his lips, Lestrade shook his head. “No, he’s fine. We’ve got him under guard at hospital for his own safety. It’s your husband, Mrs. Hudson. He’s escaped custody.”

 

Martha put her hand to her throat and gasped. She knew he’d head back to deal with her and Sherlock before he’d disappear into the back streets of London. He’d made that promise many times before, but, this time, he had nothing to lose. He’d been arrested for multiple offenses and faced serious jail time, if not the death penalty.

 

Lestrade reached across the table and took Martha’s hand. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll set up a couple of officers to keep you safe in your home. We’ll find him.”

 

“Doubtful,” she replied dolefully. “My husband is quite good at losing himself in the crowd when he wants to, and he always does what he promises to do. Sherlock and I are in quite the pickle this time.” She sighed deeply and took a long draught of spiked tea.

 

“We’ll find him, missus,” Lestrade repeated, patting her hand as he rose from his seat and pocketed his phone.

 

A sudden idea came to the landlady. She looked up at the detective and asked, pleadingly, “Could you send an officer to uni to check on my two sons? They don’t always answer my calls. You know how boys are when they’re away…”

 

“Absolutely, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll have them get on it right now,” he said as he made a slight bow to her before exiting her kitchen.

 

‘Oh, dear,” she muttered as she found her own phone and dialed one of her sons’ numbers, then the other. Neither one picked up, so she left voice mail messages, urging them to call back as soon as they got the message.

 

She feared she was in for a very long wait.

 

>>>***<<<

A few days later, a bruised-looking Sherlock cautiously poked his head in through Martha’s door, so as not to startle her. Instead, he was startled by the exuberant greeting he received as she dragged him through the door and gave him an enthusiastic hug. He froze before slowly wrapping his arms loosely around the landlady, patting her shoulder awkwardly. His face was a mask of confusion.

 

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so glad you’re all right!” she burbled as she released him and led him back to her kitchen table, setting out some cake and her own untouched cup of tea in front of him. She quickly procured a cup for herself and sat down opposite him. “So, how are you feeling, you poor lamb!”

 

“Not too bad, Mrs. Hudson. A bit the worse for wear, but I always manage to survive,” he replied, sheepishly, as he picked up the piece of cake, sans fork and took a bite. “Sorry, my manners are atrocious. Mum always said so.” Still, he tucked into the slice until it was entirely gone, then washed it down with the entire cup of tea. “Food at hospital is terrible! Yours is much better!” he smiled apologetically.

 

“Oh, don’t you worry, Sherlock. I’ve always loved watching my boys eat. Such healthy appetites! Makes a body feel good,” she smiled, but the smile was shaky.

 

Sherlock caught it immediately. “Mrs. Hudson, what’s wrong?”

 

Her lower lip trembled. “He’s taken them, I’m sure he has…”

 

“Your husband? He’s escaped?”

 

Martha nodded mutely.

 

“He’s taken your sons?”

 

She nodded again, holding on to her composure with her fingernails.

 

”Where might your husband have taken them, Mrs. Hudson? Where? _Answer me_!” His voice rose significantly and he slammed his palm on the table, which surprised her.

 

_Anger? No, it’s not that. Concern. He’s worried for me._

 

That realization made Martha burst into uncharacteristic tears.

 

Sherlock jumped up from his seat and ran around to kneel beside her, alarm evident on his sharp-boned face. “Mrs. Hudson, please, don’t cry. You need to tell me what has happened. Maybe I can help.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she sobbed. ”No one can help them. He’s taken them, you’re right, he escaped prison and went to uni to collect them. They’ve disappeared, _all_ of them.” She sobbed again, so distraught that she hardly noticed Sherlock wrapping his arms around her and laying his cheek against her shoulder.

 

“I’ll find them,” Sherlock promised. “I will. Trust me, Mrs. Hudson. Please, don’t cry.”

 

She could feel his slight frame trembling with barely-contained emotion. She knew it couldn’t be sorrow. Not Sherlock. _This time_ , it was anger.

 

Martha suddenly felt a pang of uncharacteristic pity for her husband. She didn’t know why, but she knew, somehow, that having this young man as an enemy would be a very bad thing indeed.

 

>>>***<<<

 

Sherlock walked out into the hallway, leaving the kitchen door cracked open just a pinch. It was enough for Martha to hear what was going on outside. She heard Sherlock on his phone, speaking sharply, clearly to someone on the other end. She heard him mention her address before he ended his call and tucked his mobile into his jeans pocket.

 

Within a few minutes, a group of people in various states of dress and hygiene were gathered in the foyer and Sherlock was giving out orders like a general. Each person, in turn, nodded and headed out the front door, as if on a mission. Once they were all gone, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and made one more call.

 

“Hello, brother mine,” he began, before being brought to a sudden halt by what _must_ have been a blistering verbal attack on the other end of the call. He waited patiently and, turning once to see Martha standing at the kitchen door, rolled his eyes expressively and made little “quack quack” movements with his free hand. She giggled in spite of herself. Sherlock was certainly a character.

 

Finally, it was plain he had had enough. “Will you _shut it_?” he hissed. “I didn’t call so that you could lambaste me over your latest bloody international crisis or missing Mummy’s birthday again. I was in the bloody hospital, you twat, not that your prized bloodhounds were any the wiser. I could lose them in a Farmer’s Market. Now, I need something from you…”

 

More squawking from the phone, loud enough that even Martha could hear it. Sherlock closed his eyes and mimed throttling someone with one hand. “Mycroft, I don’t give a rat’s arse about that, but I _am_ willing to give you some assistance _if_ you do me a favor or two.”

 

_Sqwawk sqwawk._

 

“Yes, alright, two cases, but I need to draw on those favors _now_. I need you to track down the possible international whereabouts of one Myron Hudson and his two sons…yes, disappeared from uni within the past week. Yes, I’m with her right now. We’ll be waiting for your call.”

 

He thumbed his mobile off, then returned to the kitchen. “You heard.”

 

Martha’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Yes. Oh, thank you, thank you, Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock led her to the table and helped her sit down, then sat opposite her. “Don’t thank me yet, Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft can be very useful in cases like this, but it’s all in the timing, you see. We need to find them before your husband does something rash or…irreparable.” His face and tone were soft but not encouraging.

 

_He knows. He already knows, somehow._

 

Tears streamed quietly down her face and she sobbed, Sherlock’s rangy arms wrapped gently around her shoulders.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is afoot as Sherlock chases down a dangerous criminal who poses a deadly threat to his intrepid landlady...

“We’re busy looking for them right now, Mrs. Hudson,” Lestrade said as Martha laid down a plate of biscuits and a cup of black tea before him. “Ta.” He pushed one biscuit into his mouth as though he hadn’t eaten for days, crumbs tumbling from his lips as he desperately tried to catch them with his fingers. “’Scuse.”

 

“Oh, no problem, Detective. It’s good to see someone with an appetite around here,” she said, wistfully.

 

Lestrade perked up. “What, something wrong?”

 

Martha sighed. “No. Well, yes, actually. It’s Sherlock. I bring him meals and he barely nibbles at them, says eating slows down his thinking and is ‘merely a distraction’ when he’s on a case. Drinks plenty of tea, though,” she added as she took a sip of her own brew.

 

“Not to worry, Mrs. H. That lad is an odd one, but I don’t think he’s dangerous. Smart, too. If only he’d lay off the drugs, who knows what he could become? Maybe even a police officer…”

 

“Spare me,” came a drawing baritone from the doorway. Both turned to see Sherlock, but not the Sherlock they had expected to see. Instead of the boyish-looking, shaggy-haired youth with the ill-fitting, borrowed clothes, there stood a tall, well-groomed man with impeccably shorn and styled curls; a bespoke suit, sans tie (“I hate ties,” he would later say); and a brightness to his eyes that hinted at a bit of mischief afoot. Little did Lestrade and Martha know it, but this was the new Sherlock-on-the-Hunt, an entirely different animal than anything that had ever come before it.

 

Martha clapped her hands approvingly. “Oh, my, Sherlock, you look wonderful! So grown up, ready to take on the world!”

 

Sherlock smiled lopsidedly, looking a bit pained at the compliment. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I figured that, if I am to investigate your case properly, I would need to present myself to the world in a more… _professional_ light.”

 

His eyes narrowed at Lestrade. “Now, tell me what you have found, Detective, and quickly. I need to do some more inquiries and I don’t feel like going over previously-covered territory,” he said, his tone imperious.

 

Lestrade grunted. “Most people would say ‘please’ when making a request, especially to the police.”

 

Sherlock snorted in disdain. “Unnecessary and time consuming. _I_ am helping _you_ , not the other way around. Information, **_now_**!”

 

Martha’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Sherlock Holmes! Where are your manners?”

 

His eyes swung in her direction, as though they were searchlights piercing the dark. “On hold for when they serve a purpose. I am about to undertake what may be a life-and-death investigation and pursuit. Conventional manners will only slow me down. _Lestrade_!”

 

She opened her mouth again, but Lestrade held up a hand to stop her. “All right, Sherlock, we’ll play it your way, for now. My men have discovered that Mrs. Hudson’s sons have been missing from uni for about 3 days now. No one is answering their phones, emails, or social media accounts. We found tickets had been purchased by one Myron Hudson for himself and his two sons from Heathrow to JFK airport in New York City. We don’t know whether or not the boys went willingly or if they had been coerced into making the trip. We’re still following up on Mr. Hudson’s movements once he arrived in America.”

 

Sherlock nodded curtly, his face expressionless. Lestrade could have sworn he heard gears turning behind those silver eyes.

 

“Well? Do you have anything for me?” Lestrade asked, tit-for-tat.

 

The impeccably-dressed young man nodded once before an odd smile crept across his full lips. “I must say, Detective, that your men did as thorough a job as I had expected them to do.”

 

Lestrade smiled. “Ta.”

 

“…which is absolutely pitiful and an embarrassment to police forces everywhere. My homeless network had determined all that within the first day of _my_ investigation, _and more_. Not only do I know that Mr. Hudson persuaded the boys to go on a spontaneous vacation with him, first class and all expenses paid, to New York and, then, to Disney World in Florida, I also know that the boys never arrived at their hotel in Orlando, although Mr. Hudson did.”

 

Martha gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in horror. Lestrade yelled, “Sherlock!”

 

A light seemed to go on behind Sherlock’s steely eyes, which widened in surprise for a fraction of a second before his cool façade cracked. He shot to Mrs. Hudson’s side, kneeling beside her, disregarding what he was doing to his new suit trousers. He threw his arms around her and said, “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I am _so_ sorry! I didn’t mean…we have _no proof_ that anything has happened to your boys, but I _will_ have to go to Florida to investigate _personally_. Please, don’t worry too much…”

 

“You _will_ keep me informed of any of your findings in the future, Sherlock Holmes, or I will never share _any_ police findings with you _ever again_ , do you _understand_ me?” Lestrade growled through gritted teeth. “If we had had that information days ago…”

 

“You would have done _nothing_ , Lestrade! It is now an international matter, and _your_ hands are tied. Mine aren’t. I will find Mrs. Hudson’s sons and bring her husband back to answer for his crimes.” He leaned in to whisper to the landlady, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hudson. I will do my _very_ best for you, and my very best is _quite good_ , even if I do say so myself.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before standing and swanning out of the room without a single glance at Lestrade.

 

“Strange lad,” Lestrade commented as he turned back to face Martha. “I wish him luck, but I’m afraid that, with that attitude, somebody is going to hand his head to him someday.”

 

Martha snuffled and nodded. Yet, for some reason, this was the most hope she’d had in days. Sherlock always seemed to inspire that in her…

 >>>***<<<

 

About a week later, Martha received a surprise visit from Detective Lestrade.

 

“Ah, Detective! Please come inside. I thought that, maybe, you were the couple looking to rent the second floor! How are things? Have you heard from Sherlock?” she asked, rapid-fire.

 

Wordlessly, the detective handed her a faxed communiqué in a plain envelope. She tentatively held it while searching his face for some sign of what to expect when she opened it.

 

All she could read was fatigue and sympathy.

 

Holding her breath, she opened the letter. Inside was a typed missive, written in Sherlock’s style, addressed to Detective Lestrade, with instructions to give a copy to Martha immediately.

 

The missive read:

 

_Detective Lestrade,_

_My investigations have taken a dark turn. Myron Hudson is currently hiding out in a small, out-of-the-way hotel instead of the one he had booked into initially. His sons did not accompany him._

_This morning, scattered male body parts were found in the Everglades, a large national wildlife sanctuary known for its prodigious population of flesh-eating alligators. I took the liberty of having their DNA checked against some items I had taken from Mrs. Hudson’s sons’ bedroom. Unfortunately, the DNA matched both the Hudson boys._

_Please convey my deepest condolences to Mrs. Hudson and tell her that I will bring her husband to justice for the murders, if for nothing else._

_In all sincerity and determination,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

Martha sank to the floor, her back propped against the wall. Her mind was suddenly shocked into unthinkingness. She was unaware that Lestrade had knelt down beside her and was talking soothingly to her. She heard nothing but a background droning, felt nothing but a push and pull of something against her suddenly inert body. She stared at a ridiculous piece of paper that had brought her world crashing down around her.

 

_My boys, my babes, oh my God, HOW COULD HE…?_

 

Lestrade managed to lift her up to her feet and lead her into her kitchen, settling her on a chair at her small table before putting on a kettle for tea. As the burner warmed, he sat opposite her, holding her hands in both of his own.

 

“My condolences, Mrs. Hudson. It seems pretty obvious that your husband had this planned out in advance. He couldn’t get to you because of the protection detail around your house, but he _could_ get to your sons.”

 

“He’d always threatened, in the past,” she choked, the words catching in her throat, “but I never, in my entire life, expected him to do _this_! He’s a monster!”

 

Tears streamed down Martha’s lightly-seamed face, the marks of abuse and care worn deep into her flesh. She sobbed, wordlessly, her heart clenched in sorrow and anger. Lestrade just sat there with her, doing the only thing he could at that moment—being a pillar of support for an old woman in need.

 

Finally, he asked her, softly, “Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. H?”

 

Martha snuffled back tears before saying, “Yes,” in a shaky voice.

 

Lestrade nodded. “What would you like me to do?”

 

Martha raised her eyes to meet his and, in a hard-edged voice, said, “Tell Sherlock to burn the bloody bastard.”

 >>>***<<<

 

In the following weeks, Martha was able to rent the second floor flat to a lovely couple with a dog. She also received occasional missives from Sherlock via Detective Lestrade, detailing the ongoing investigation.

 

One morning, Lestrade had appeared outside her door with another message. He handed it to Martha with a barely-suppressed grin.

 

It read:

 

_Detective Gregory Lestrade, NSY,_

_As I had promised, I am keeping you apprised of our investigation. The FBI has been working with your operative, one Sherlock Holmes, who refers to himself as a consulting detective with your department. Despite any sort of identification or reference pertaining to such, he immediately commandeered the case over the vociferous protests of the lead in this case, Agent Bob Ross._

_Mr. Holmes is possessed of some very formidable talents when it comes to sleuthing, but not-so-much when it comes to people. While he was able to track our subject, Myron Hudson, to a small, indescript hotel, and, from there, to a nearby bar, he also nearly involved the local agents in a brawl with some of the locals, who are suspicious of the FBI and law enforcement in general._

_While we were able to take Mr. Hudson into custody without a struggle, Mr. Holmes stepped to the fore to “explain” why we were there. Some of Mr. Hudson’s drinking pals were something less than enthused to be addressed so condescendingly by a member of law enforcement, let alone an upper-class Brit with a tongue like acid. Fortunately for all involved, and Mr. Holmes in particular, we were able to extricate both him and the subject before one of the drinking party tried to crease Mr. Holmes’ skull with a bottle of bourbon._

_I will keep you informed on the case as new details arise. In the future, I would advise that, if you send Mr. Holmes to represent your interests, you provide a muzzle and a tranquilizer gun as standard equipment for his management._

_I’m serious,_

_August Doyle, Senior FBI Agent_

 

A giggle erupted from Martha’s lips, despite her current melancholia over the loss of her sons. It was almost as if the son she’d never birthed had avenged the two brothers he never knew, and that eased the pain in her heart somewhat.

 >>>***<<<

 

A week later, Lestrade, once again, showed up at her door, just as Mrs. Hudson returned from her shopping run. She invited him in for tea and scones, which he accepted gratefully.

 

As he was stuffing his mouth, he pulled another envelope out of his battered coat and handed it to her. She tore it open with gusto.

 

It read:

 

_Detective Gregory Lestrade, NSY,_

_Myron Hudson is being held in prison, pending extradition to Florida by Great Britain’s legal system. We have received additional information about the subject’s criminal activities from NSY, for which we are grateful. This will help flesh out the case against the subject, even though it will not be the main focus. The subject is being charged with  two counts of pre-meditated murder with extenuating circumstances, lying in wait, filicide, abuse of a corpse, and just about anything else that we can dig up so that we can throw the book at this perp._

_Mr. Holmes has already given his testimony as part of discovery. He also testified at the preliminary hearing, providing much-needed information that he obtained through extraordinary means. However, he peppered his testimony with so many acerbic observations about the American judicial system in general, and local law enforcement in particular, that the judge found him in contempt of court for disorderly conduct and disrespect toward a law enforcement official  and ordered him to leave the country immediately after the trial or face a lengthy incarceration. He was escorted to his plane by the Sheriff himself, who thanked him for his invaluable assistance but instructed him to never set foot in his county again, as several deputies had taken extreme umbridge at some of Mr. Holmes’ observations about their work._

_For the sake of the continued goodwill between our countries, please do not send Mr. Holmes back. Ever._

_August Doyle, Senior FBI Agent_

 

Martha smiled as she raised her eyes to meet Lestrade’s.

 

“That’s my boy,” she said, proudly.

  >>>***<<<

 

 “So, how are you feeling, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked solicitously as he sipped his perfectly-made tea.

 

Martha smiled warmly at him as she sat opposite him. “About as well as I can be, I suppose. Having Myron finally locked up in a secure prison in another country is a definite relief, even if it won’t bring my boys back.” Her eyes betrayed the sadness behind her words.

 

Sherlock brought out his laptop and propped it on the table between them, facing both of them. “I was sent this video by the Sheriff I worked with. Very ‘folksy’ fellow; not too bright, but competent enough. Rather like Lestrade.”

 

Martha giggled. Sherlock smiled, obviously pleased about having made her laugh.

 

“This is the video of the verdict and sentencing phase of the trial. I thought you might be interested, if you’re up to it…”

 

Taking a deep breath, Martha nodded. “Yes. I want to see it.”

 

Sherlock played the video for her. It was of excellent quality and the voices were very clear, for it being a courtroom camera. Mr. Hudson sat sullenly between his lawyers, truculent to the very end, until he heard the sentence: Death in the Florida state electric chair, “Old Sparky.” At that point, he leapt up from his seat (“Agile for a man of his age and debauchery,” Sherlock remarked) and attempted to throttle his attorney. The Sheriff joined the fray, pulling him off the nearly-unconscious man and snapping the handcuffs smartly around his wrists. The defendant then began screaming death threats against everyone in the room but, most importantly, against “that bloody toff detective, Sherlock Holmes,” which made Sherlock smile in satisfaction

 

“You can always judge a detective by the caliber of his enemies,” he smirked. Martha came around the table and hugged him with everything she had, and he blushed mightily.

>>>***<<<

 

A day later, Sherlock showed up at Martha’s front door wearing a new greatcoat and bearing a rather large fruit basket filled with Floridian fruit.

 

“Sent to me by the Sheriff. I can’t eat it all, and I thought that you might be able to do something with it,” he shrugged.

 

She beamed. “Come inside, Sherlock. I think I know just the thing…” she said as she ushered him into the kitchen. “Lovely coat,” she remarked.

 

“Yes, I needed it, now that I’m back in London. It was unnecessary in Florida, but here…It’s a Milford Belstaff, Irish wool,” he said, a tinge of pride in his voice as he pirouetted to show off the flare of the back below the belt.

 

“Lovely,” she beamed. “Now take it off and sit down while I do something with this.” She hefted the fruit basket in demonstration.

 

Over the next few hours, Martha whipped up a prodigious fruit salad, with a whiskey base for interest. They were both quite tipsy by the time Sherlock went home to his new apartment on Montague St.  She made him promise to stay in touch, which he did, with brief reports of his progress as his new business endeavor as a “Consulting Detective” started to take off. She also made him promise to stop taking drugs, a promise he made, reluctantly, out of respect for his caring landlady. “You can’t solve cases if you’re high as a kite, dear,” she said, and he agreed.

 >>>***<<<

 

After a few years, Martha sent Sherlock a text. She hadn’t actually _seen_ him for a while, so texting was the best way to get his attention.

 

_He’s been so busy lately, what with his new profession and all…hardly has time for an old lady like me…_

 

The text read:

 

**@SherlockHolmes Tenants in 221B have moved out suddenly. Flat available, price reasonable. I would suggest a flatmate. You don’t do well alone, dear. Mrs. H.**

 

She received a text back almost immediately. It read:

 

**@MrsHudson  Excellent news. I don’t need a flatmate to cover costs, have a stipend from family. Besides, who would want me for a flatmate? Sherlock.**

 

Martha texted back. It read:

 

**@SherlockHolmes I don’t care. You need a flatmate, end of story. Find someone to share your rooms. It will keep you out of trouble. Mrs. H.**

 

Two days later, she received a hopeful text. It read:

 

**@MrsHudson Will take the flat. Have found interesting person to share it with. Moving my possessions in later today. Flatmate will come by tomorrow evening to see 221B with me. Sherlock**

 

She texted back:

 

**@SherlockHolmes Don’t you mean ‘potential flatmate’, dear? Mrs. H.**

 

A final, curt text from Sherlock came back immediately:

 

**@MrsHudson  No. Flatmate. I’ll make sure of that. Be ready. Sherlock.**

 >>>***<<<

 

The next evening:

 

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson!”

 

“Sherlock! And who is this?”

 

“May I introduce  Doctor John Watson…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fini. While "origin stories" are not to everyone's taste, and this is pre-johnlock, I hope you have enjoyed my take on how the great detective got his start and met the landlady who would change his life, just as he has changed hers. Thank you for reading!


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